The fit of rage at the travellers resisting eviction from Dale Farm in Essex
is puzzling.

The country is convulsed with one of its periodic fits of rage over travellers, who are resisting their eviction from the Dale Farm camp in Essex. I can understand the resentment they provoke, but I’m always slightly puzzled by it.

Over the years, I’ve met quite a few travellers. When I was on the jury of the Gulbenkian prize, for the country’s best museum, there was a traditional gipsy caravan on the shortlist, all colours and extravagance, which had been kitted out as a museum to explain the Romany’s inheritance and traditions. The local school had a clutch of traveller children among its pupils, and the caravan exhibit had eased their acceptance into the larger community. I was invited to see inside some other caravans: they were sparkling with cut glass and knick-knacks, plush with cushions and comfort.

Another time, I went to a horse fair in the Midlands, a lavish event where thousands turned up and traded horses, cooked meals over fires and set about matching their boys and girls. The fair had existed since the 12th century. They told me of their travels, and how they keep to their ways with money (they bank with the Halifax: apparently, it has the most branches). On another occasion, I followed a convoy turfed out of a disused and derelict farm site by police. As they meandered through leafy Shropshire, they were met with hostility at every turn: even the drives of houses had been heaped with stones for fear of intrusion.

It seems to be a universal truth, from the Australian Aborigines to the Bedouin of the Middle East, that nomadic peoples are seen as threatening the security of settled communities. Will we only be happy when everyone has a fixed abode? And who decided that it should be so?

Have you noticed how the class system has come to infect our vegetables? Who doesn’t despise the hand-dirtying swede and turnip, while admiring the soignée asparagus, the rarer samphire and the exotic pak choi?

There is, however, upward mobility afoot, as top chefs seek to exploit fancy flavours at reasonable cost, and turn to lowlier produce. It happened with the emergence of beetroot at the finest of tables – and now, thank heavens, it is happening to the marrow.

I have long hankered for the traditional marrow, a favourite of my childhood that has been overtaken by its more flashy relation, the squash. I would always ask for it at the greengrocers, only to be told that there was no demand.

Now, though, I sense a shift. Over the bank holiday, I saw it featured in the “best vegetable” section of a country show. What’s more, Angela Hartnett has used it in her latest set of recipes (stuffed, admittedly, with swanky chorizo). In short, marrows are back. Next up: tripe and onions.

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One of the most depressing phrases in the language must be “the nights are drawing in”. I don’t want them to draw in: I want them to stay exactly where they are. And I want the sunshine to come peeping through each morning around six o’clock, filling the room with light and the day with promise.

I used to think it was a snobbish affectation for the rich to go south in the winter – now, with these old bones, I understand that winter cold is a positive affliction. As a child, there was the promise of Bonfire Night and slabs of ginger parkin. As you age, the fun of kicking up golden leaves fades. September promises a late burst of sun, but the rays are thinning and the flowered dresses are back in the wardrobe. Even toasted crumpets by a log fire are small recompense for the pinch of cold around the door.

Perhaps it’s simply the passing of time I hate. As you age, there’s less of it ahead. And no matter how many tricks we play with the clocks, it doesn’t make the sort of difference we’d like it.